


sinfonia di luce

by mishcollin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:51:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1258624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you first met, you remember, he blew the lights out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sinfonia di luce

**i. prelude**

When you first met, you remember, he blew the lights out. He came toward you like a current of electricity or the first tide of a tsunami, and for days all you can think about is the way sparks shattered from the bulbs and into his hair, settled there like stardust.

Watching him is like watching an explosion in slow motion, the first tremor before an earthquake.

And he shakes you. He resonates in you like someone’s tapped a tuning fork to your bones.

You hate him at first, but he is light, he is holy, he is  _whole_.

He’s also a park bench, a blood sigil, an iron-pressed coat, a crumpled piece of paper in your hand by a dreamscape lake.

He reminds you of a textbook picture of the Aurora Borealis you saw when you were nine and still in school, and you try to resent him for it.

 

**ii. andante**

"It’s not broken," he tells you from the center of a ring of holy fire, the smell of burning oil a sharp and pungent tang in your mouth, his eyes fixed on you with a wild desperation you secretly hoped you’d never witness, not from him. You thought he  _was_ fire once, in the beginning, but now you see he’s an ember, a flickering remnant of what you thought he was, and you’re both ashes, perhaps curling toward each other as you burn up, but more likely detaching and splintering, fading into nothing.

Your throat is dry but your eyes are moist and something aches in you, like someone’s whittling hollow things into the shelves of your chest.

You remember a different fire, in another time; a Christmas Eve you spent alone and intoxicated in the winter of 2009. He showed up in a rustle of fabric and you thought at the time you didn’t want him there, but he sat with you the whole night through next to the fireplace. The coffee he brought you had cooled within moments, and as you drifted, you could feel his gaze on you, warmer than the fire you’d half-heartedly built, than a summer night—than anything you’ve ever known.

You leave him there in a circle of fire and you don’t look back.

 

**iii. allegro**

After the fall, over a half-finger of whiskey, he asks you in a hoarse rasp, “What am I?”

You try to reply but your answer’s gotten tangled up in your mouth somehow.

The ring of color around his eyes, once bright and ethereal, is dark like stillwater, tired and reedy. “What am I? What am I anymore?”

You can’t tell him in words, so you take him to your room and you try to show him, in the warm and stilted glow of the lamplight. You taste the salt of the sweat in the thumbprint-shaped hollow at the base of his neck, and he tattoos Enochian promises along the column of your throat with his mouth, things you can’t understand but he breathes them into your skin as if his words can still recreate you from dust, as if you both aren’t mere shadows of what you once were.

He shakes above you, this once holy and righteous force, and you watch as he fractures, as he comes loose at the seams until he’s left dangling in fraying threads, and you think that you possibly have never wanted anything more than you want him, like this, his eyes fastened to yours with an intensity that still scalds.

He rocks into you and murmurs, “Dean, Dean,  _Dean,_ " until he can say nothing else.

 

**iv. finale**

You think you imagine it when you wake in the middle of the night and see him hovering guiltily in the doorway, faintly illuminated by the weak shaft of moonlight through the windows, fully clothed and with a bag slung over his shoulder.

"Cas?" you whisper into the darkness.

"I’m sorry," he says, "I have to go. I’m sorry, I’m sorry."

When you wake in the morning, you think you’ve dreamt that, but the sheets next to you are cold and wrinkled. You trace the thin folds in the cotton as if trying to recreate the shape of him, as if he’ll materialize beside you, like he always had in another time, in another place. When you were both different and partially whole.

He doesn’t return for some time, but you think of him often.

Like a beacon from a lighthouse on the sea, or maybe a dislodged star, you leave the porchlight on to guide him home.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I don't really write fic anymore (or at least am in a dry spell) but I wrote this a week or so ago and realized I never put it on here. The title is Italian for "symphony of light." First 2nd-person POV and it was definitely interesting. :)
> 
> Additional note: It's called "symphony of light" because I wanted to include different motifs of light for different phases of their relationship. <3


End file.
